Page 61 of Racing Hearts

As a person who fights to show nothing but composure to the world, I know what it feels like—and what it looks like—to face down an avalanche of emotion and turn away. So, I push myself off from my seat and circle around to his side of the countertop. I stand between him and the scallops.

“It’s just you and me here,” I say.

“You,” he says quietly, “are never just you.”

“I am right now, though.”

He draws in a sharper breath and his eyes find mine. I nod encouragingly and he exhales as though steeling himself.

Finally, he says, “It was tough when he was alive. But it’s all harder now.”

I blink. He’s just revealed something, something important and possibly deeply hurtful. And yet I have no idea what it was.

“Why is it harder now?” I ask as gently as I can manage.

He rocks his lip between his teeth. “Because he’s gone. And now I’ll never have his approval.”

His words knife into my sternum. Without a moment of thought, without worrying about job evaluations or Pan Ams or all the other reasons I shouldn’t cross yet another line with him, I run a hand down his arm. The muscles of his forearm are clenched tight as I grab his fist.

His breath gusts out, but before I can pull away, his fingers twine with mine.

“Listen,” I say. “Obviously, I can’t tell you that your dad was proud of you. I can’t know that. But here’s what I do know.”

I press the tip of my thumb into his palm, like I’m anchoring myself to him. Like I want to impress on him the gravity of what I’m going to try to say.

“You have some unconventional strategies, but you are a hardworking and diligent coach. You’re willing to change to fit the needs of athletes, instead of demanding they adapt to you, which is so unique I’ve never even heard of it before. But, much more importantly than all that, you are a good man. You have great taste in pastries and a mean swing in a batting cage. You’re strong and steady, but also energetic and honest and, unlike every athlete and coach I’ve ever met, you have no trace of ego.”

I squeeze his hand tighter. “I have no idea how much of that your dad knew, and I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t matter, because it does. Of course, it matters. But, also, those things are true. Whether or not your dad saw them.”

His hand tightens around mine until I can feel the calluses on his palms and the heartbeat in his fingertips. “Kath.”

The way he says my name, like it’s full of hurt and want and need and hope. It unspools the last little bit of thread wrapped around my heart.

“Adrian,” I say, and my voice trembles.

“I would like to kiss you,” he whispers.

In answer, I lean forward and press my lips to his.

Nineteen

Adrian cups my face in his hands and kisses me. My lips part in invitation and his tongue brushes against mine. A tingling warmth descends over every inch of my skin. He tastes as good as I remembered, like mint and citrus. Our next kiss is fuller, rounder, each of us giving ourselves over to the motion of it. I sink my teeth into his bottom lip and he groans.

The sound stirs deep inside me. Heat pools between my legs and want uncoils in my chest. I want him—desperately. It’s not just today or right now. This feeling has been with me for days. I’ve just repressed it, beaten it back. Forced it into hibernation.

Now that I see the scope of it, it’s almost startling. In the past, moments like these were always part of a plan or a schedule. I’ve kissed other men, slept with other men, because it made sense or because I felt I needed the experience or because it was the logical next step in the natural progression of a relationship. It’s not to say I’ve never felt attraction or lust. But this—this is different.

That was like lighting a candle and watching the flame dance. This is like becoming the fire.

I’m desperate for him now and that flickering flame infuses every movement of my body: the tug of my hands against his neck, the press of my tongue against his, the murmur of a sigh on his lips. Adrian, clearly, notices the shift because his movements change, too. His hands are suddenly everywhere: pinning my braid to the back of my head, running up the smooth skin under my shirt, cupping the back of my thigh and hitching my leg between his. I can feel his desire. Not just in the way that he captures my mouth or murmurs against my neck. But in the way he breathes me in, like he’s been waiting for this moment for just as long as I have. The thought is a puff of air on an already billowing fire.

Adrian presses me backward until my low back hits the edge of the kitchen counter and I can feel the cool surface just beyond my thin nylon shirt. I want more of that—more sensation, more friction. My hands find the hem of Adrian’s T-shirt and he moves his arms so I can pull it free. His expanse of muscles gleams in the low light. I run my hands against his velvety skin, touching him in the way I’ve wanted to since that day on the ergs. Since the first time I saw him do an arm balance on a yoga mat or sit in a rowing shell. I revel in the contours of his chest, smoothing my fingers across the dent in the middle of his sternum, the pocket beneath each of his pecs.

We meet each other’s eyes and before this goes any further, I wrap a hand around his wrist and angle our bodies toward the door that I think leads to his bedroom. But Adrian remains solidly in place. Instead, he scoops two hands under my backside and lifts me until I’m sitting on his kitchen island.

“You cook food on this surface,” I remind him, even though the scallops are a safe distance away.

He laughs against my throat. “I also own a variety of countertop sanitizers. Besides.” He pushes back from me slightly, two hands pressed on either side of my legs. From this vantage, he has to tilt his head to look up at me. “I’ve spent a long time thinking about all of the things I can do to you in this position.”